From his vantage point at the front of his makeshift gun-emplacement before the entrance to the East Warren tunnels, Corvaughn of House Darragut watched his enemies burn with righteous indignation.
“Take a good look, lads,” he said, sniffing the intoxicating aroma of gunpowder – the greatest gift of Stone to man – “This is what a slaughter looks like.”
His Handgunners heaved a collective “HAR!” in response, reloading their arqeubus after the next volley and patting their helmets to indicate that the gun chambers were loaded and ready to belch their payload at the enemy once again.
The cannons had given him pause, and yet he’d also looked upon them with almost childish wonder. He’d never even seen a fully functional 6-powder cannon in his time as a commander. And now, shining bright in the dead air of these putrid tunnels, there were two staring right at him.
But the queerest thing was that the Kobold horde never fired on their position.
It struck him as odd. Looking at his disciplined gun-line, entrenched and operating with machine-like efficiency, he admitted that an artillery strike would have proved utterly devastating. He’d kept his Thunderers in reserve in case of any enemy charge – and the power of their warhammers was enough to crack at least five Kobold skulls at once when the army did eventually come upon them – but their weakness was in their lack of mobility. Corvaughn’s people were tough as stone, and unmovable. But just like their venerated mineral, their battle lines tended to be inflexible. It was a weakness he had always yearned to correct as a commander through the employment of cavalry. But, as of yet, no single creature in the Underkingdom could accommodate the sheer bulk of a strong dwarven lad.
So the cannons lack of discharge proved unusual – but not unwelcome. As his gunners continued their devastating volley, and the species that had mocked him openly back in his Eastern camp were utterly decimated, he scanned the battlefield and saw that his Dwarves were not the only species at odds with the Kobold menace.
“Commander!” one of his gunners shouted over his shoulder. “Ah can see ratmen in the rear! Furry bastards have just sent cavalry charges against the wee yipping shits. Their lines are breakin’ something awful!”
Corvaughn looked upon the blasted battleground before the primitive ratman village and saw that his man spoke true. It almost looked like the furry shits were helping them out.
“Commander?” his man asked. “Do we fire on ‘em?”
“Ye wouldn’t have a chance of a clear shot at this distance,” he grunted. “Keep pushing the red bastards back.”
“We’re gonna let the shit-eating rock-muncher’s live, sir?”
A devious smile then coated Corvaughn’s face. One that even served to strike fear into his questioning troops.
“I’ve got a better idea, lad,” he grunted, a devious smile coating his face. “We’re gonna kill two birds with one stone. Keep up the volley fire. Let the ratmen take the brunt of their infantry. Then, when the Kobolds fold and begin their retreat, take those furry mongos down.”
…
In the very heart of the chaos unfolding before Razork, Skeever Steelclaw practically flew through the battlefield.
His Spineripper clawed and chewed through every Kobold Skog and Yip that dared raise a weapon against him, and his spear struck true against the shriveling bellies of Yips that hadn’t even been able to turn to meet the coordinated cavalry charges head on. When the third legion of Spinerippers sliced through the Kobolds’ rearguard, all hell began to break loose.
The Yips were sandwiched between two equally bloody fates: a bullet-ridden death or a tooth mangled one, and now, even with their great God waving his pointy stick above him, they were succumbing to panic. Skeever saw it in the eyes of every Yip who turned to try and repel the ratman riders. He saw that the army was mere moments away from breaking entirely.
And as Sire Marcus had taught him, there were ways he could speed that process up.
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“RATS OF RED-EYE!” he roared. “RATS OF MARROW! THESE TUNNELS ARE BEING OUR HOMES – THESE BEASTS ARE WALKING ON OUR SOIL! SHALL WE BE GIVING THEM A SINGLE INCH MORE?”
The unified cry that was returned to the Talon-Commander shook the very walls of the Underkingdom itself:
“NO!”
A resounding surge trickled up through the ratmen as the Kobolds attempted to push them back with their shields. The riders propelled their Spinerippers forward with vicious kicks that would normally have caused the beasts to shake off their masters. But in the maelstrom of bloody chaos that unfolded before them, all the beasts could care about was satiating their appetite.
And so the Kobold lines began to shrink, slowly but surely, into bloody puddles of torn flesh and bones.
Yet Skeever grit his sharp teeth, feeling the crimson ichor of his enemies coat his furry chops as the order for the army to retreat had still not been sounded.
Idiot toad, he thought, looking up again at the practically shaking form of Boss Skegga – his great rolls of fat slipping over his floating stone throne as his honor guard charged the enemy. Such Kobolds were the only ones who were able to put up any hint of resistance – their halberds had reach, and the reinforced plating of their armor gave them an edge even against the serrated teeth of the ‘rippers. Skeever saw them gradually began to form up and thrust their blades against the advancing cavalry, who were by this point becoming impeded by the sheer amount of bodies that were piling up before their onslaught.
Skeever dueled with one of the honor guard himself, feeling a rush of pain as a halberd nicked his shin and forced him and his Spineripper back. Their strike had been devastating, but it meant nothing if they couldn’t entirely break the morale of the enemy. They had given them too much time to regroup, and now the little bastards had formulated a strategy that could nullify the cavalry entirely.
The Kobold honor guard sat behind their lesser men, thrusting over their shoulders. Meanwhile, the smaller yips raised their shields in a wall to block the onrush of cavalry, throwing their collective weight against the Spinerippers. It was a strategy that, if the Ratmen had time on their hands, could have been easily countered. But time was not a resource that Skeever’s warriors had to hand, and he saw rows upon rows of Spinerippers begin to fall before the halberds and spears of the Kobold shield-wall.
It was a strategy they couldn’t have developed themselves – the little Yips weren’t smart enough. Yet, perhaps they had been smart enough to observe what had brought their enemies success.
Were they finally learning from their mistakes?
Skeever shook the thought from his mind. Now was not the time for admiring his foes. Instead, he rallied his men with a call to action that brought them charging right into the wall of thorns in a desperate attempt to break through.
But it was in vain. There were too many.
Hoping against all hope, Skeever looked above the wall of jagged iron and saw Skegga still pivoting in confusion. Whoever had taken the lead to formulate the anti-cavalry strategy, it certainly hadn’t been him.
And that’s when the ratman realized something.
The big sack of shit was terrified, even as his force was beginning to hold their own at least on their flank.
Skeever knew terror. He’d felt it even since he was a mere pup. He’d known what fear was since first he looked up at the Queen that birthed him and seen her desire to crush him within her eyes. He’d had to fight his brothers, tooth and claw, for the right to suckle on her teats – for the right to survive. Ratmen were small, they were few, but they knew what fear felt like from the day they were born. Those that lived to fight did so because that’s simply what life was in the Underkingdom.
But this toad – this bloated jelly-thing screaming in the center of the Kobold horde – he’d never learned how to push through fear. Skeever wagered he’d never had to fight for anything in his life.
So when the great toad turned suddenly towards his army’s rear, and met the eyes of the Talon-Commander, Skeever knew how he could salvage this fight.
In one single motion he forced his Spineripper to leap up at the shield wall, taking him far above the halberds that pierced his beast’s stomach. He looked Skegga in his impish little eyes, raised his spear in his good arm, and hurled it directly at the toad-God’s shaking form.
“FOR SIRE MARCUS!” he screamed into the incredulous face of the beast. “FOR THE SHAI-ALUD!”
Time seemed to stop in the moment his weapon left his hand.
All three armies collectively watched the bloody projectile, wrapped with Kobold innards, sail seamlessly towards the great fat toad as he floundered like a fish upon his runic throne. And the throat of every rat, kobold, and Dwarf gasped to see the tip of the spear find its mark – embedding itself in the great flabby mass of Boss Skegga’s stomach.
The Kobolds around him lowered their weapons. They looked with new eyes upon their illustrious leader as both the ratmen and the Dwarves renewed their assault.
Because for the first time in their lives, they were seeing the impossible: they were watching a God bleed.
Skeever’s rats rallied behind him as he plowed through the confused horde, carried forward by sheer battle frenzy as the word he had been waiting to hear sailed forth from the bloodied Skegga’s now frothing lips:
“RETREAT!”
###
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